


Of Circuits and Sentiment

by Kittiesincellos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittiesincellos/pseuds/Kittiesincellos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Mrs. Hudson is, in fact, a rather nice mobile phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Circuits and Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stitchnik for helping develop this whacky idea.

     “—running to Mummy was a tactic I didn’t think even _you_ would resort to. You needn’t have mentioned the accident with the eels, and telling her about the mix up with the Russian embassy was just childish. I proved myself to be innocent adequately enough, thank you. It was rather theatric of you to order your men to come crashing through the windows. And another thing, that severed arm was acquired by perfectly legal means and—“

 

     The soft clack of a hard-plastic object being set on the table was enough to halt Sherlock mid-rant. His hand paused its grandiose gesture of overbearing-brother-related-frustration and his eyes were instantly drawn to Mycroft’s hand, draped over said object.

                    

     “What’s that?” he inquired, attempting to mentally will his brother to remove his hand.

     “Just a small trinket I thought you’d be interested in. I’d be more than happy to show you if you’d stop pacing about and calm yourself.”

 

     Sherlock scoffed, but relented, and sat himself across from his brother. Sherlock ground his teeth when he saw Mycroft’s face. To anyone else, Mycroft’s expression would have looked happy and contented, but Sherlock knew Mycroft was neither of those things. That expression was one of victory. Sherlock _despised_ that expression.

 

     Mycroft lifted his hand to reveal a small, gray phone. It was rather unremarkable, but Sherlock held his tongue. There was no such thing as average where Mycroft was concerned, and if Mycroft was anything like the boy from his childhood (and he _was_ ) he’d explain it all to him with a complimentary smug expression.

 

     “I was able to obtain this from the research department on a favour.”

 

     Sherlock knew better than to ask what research department he was referring to, or what the department was researching, or why they owed him a favor.

 

            “It’s a prototype. A technological revelation, I’ve been told. I know you have a propensity to misplace your mobile phones in all manner of places—the incident with the corpse not withstanding…” Mycroft continued.

 

            “Oh that was _one time_ ; it was an _experiment_ Mycroft. Besides,” Sherlock sniffed “I was able to retrieve it before the burial.”

 

            “Regardless,” Mycroft interrupted “I thought you would appreciate something more…durable.” Mycroft made a face as he inspected the portion of his sleeve that was previously lying on the table.

 

     The cheap, disgusting table had come with the flat, and Sherlock was not one to turn down a free petri dish when one came his way (or sat in his living room). Mycroft had taken one look inside the Montague flat and shuttered. It was in abhorrent condition from the previous owners, but Sherlock’s stubbornness wouldn’t allow Mycroft to re-furnish it for him. So here he sat, in a dark, dismal, mold-covered flat. He’d been tempted to take a few pictures to send to Mummy, hoping she could talk some sense into her son. He still might.

 

Sherlock picked up the phone and read the brand and model number aloud:

 

     “’HUD-sen. Model #93’.” He began to rotate the phone, inspecting its rounded edges and smooth face.

 

     “There’s no port for a charger.” He said, quirking an eyebrow.

 

     “It doesn’t need one.”

 

     “As a matter of fact, there are no openings at all. Not even for points of assembly.”

 

Mycroft simply widened his smug grin, offering no explanation.

 

     Sherlock slid one finger across the screen. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever touched. The glass was soft, and had no friction to it whatsoever. He tilted the screen against the light from the window. No fingerprints either.

 

     After a few minutes of Sherlock tapping and prodding the phone, Mycroft realized Sherlock wasn’t going to ask how to turn it on. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft said “HUD-sen, Mycroft, voice recognition enabled.”

 

            With that, the screen lit up, and the voice of an older woman spoke a response to the command.

            **“Voice recognition enabled, dear. Input new voice?”**

“Yes. Sherlock, if you would speak?” Mycroft said.

 

            “Mycroft, why is there an elderly woman speaking on behalf on my mobile?” Sherlock said, one eyebrow making its journey to the middle of his forehead.

 

Sherlock’s voice echoed from the phone, no doubt wanting to confirm it was the voice intended to be recognized.

 

            **“** _Mycroft, why is there an elderly woman speaking on behalf on my mobile?_ **Voice received, confirm?”**

            “Yes.” Mycroft responded. “The voice comes from a voice actress hired by the production company. They felt giving the device a more human quality to it would allow its user to be more _comfortable_ when using it. It’s unfortunately a piece of its base circuitry, and is impossible to disable.”

 

            “Why can’t I access anything?” Sherlock said, making a noise of frustration every time the message **Access Denied** came up on display.

 

            “HUD-sen, transfer administrator to voice ‘Sherlock’”

 

            **“Confirmed. Administrator: Sherlock”**

            “So what’s your purpose for giving me this?” Sherlock inquired.

 

            “I felt you needed a mobile fit to keep up with your-- _lifestyle._ ” He said, taking the time to choose his words carefully.

 

            “Yes, but what’s your _actual_ purpose for giving me this?” the inquiry as to what the nature of the catch would be was silent, but heard none the less.

 

            “My motives for this are purely innocent. I’ve taken the liberty of having the production team input it with a schedule of sorts. It will keep track of times you should eat, sleep, and do other basic human functions you seem to love neglecting.”

 

            “Mycroft, honestly. You expect a piece of plastic and circuitry to be more capable of caring for my health than me?” Sherlock said, tossing the phone back on the table.

     In the minute of silence that followed, Mycroft blinked exactly once. A slow, sarcastic gesture he hoped demonstrated how much that question didn’t need to be answered. Sherlock had been hospitalized twice this year alone for dehydration and malnutrition. His inability to focus on anything else than a case was dangerous, and Mycroft found this phone to be a much better solution than hiring a nanny.

 

     “Have some faith in my abilities, brother.”

 

     “Show my you deserve faith, and I will demonstrate it. Until then, I hope you enjoy your new mobile.” Mycroft said, in perfect control despite his brother’s obtuseness.

 

     “What if I don’t follow the instructions given to me?” said Sherlock, making a point of not looking at his brother or the mobile, with arms crossed.

 

     “Then I’m alerted.”

 

     “I don’t have to take this you know. I can walk three streets over, throw it in a skip, and never see it again.” Sherlock sneered.

 

     “I must have forgotten to mention that I linked it to the cold-case archives of Scotland Yard. How unlike me.” Mycroft said, inspecting the handle of the umbrella at his side.

 

     “Really?” Sherlock said, sitting up straight, eyes widening.

 

     Sherlock quickly composed himself, snatched the phone back from the table, and found exactly what Mycroft was boasting about. Every cold-case on file was now at his disposal. He couldn’t alter anything on file from his end, but he was free to look over them as he pleased.

 

     “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll tell Mummy you’re not coming next Saturday then, shall I?” Mycroft said with a sigh.

 

Sherlock responded by waving dismissively in Mycroft’s direction, eyes firmly fixed on the mobile in front of him.

 

As Mycroft stepped out of the room, he called back:

                       

            “HUD-sen, activate Nighthawk.”

 

            **“Confirmed: Nighthawk active”**

 

            “’Nighthawk’? Mycroft, what is ‘Nighthawk’? Mycroft? _MYCROFT_?” He received no response.

 

            “HUD-sen, disable Nighthawk.” He ordered.

 

            **“Command not valid.”**

“HUD-sen, disable _Nighthawk._ ” He enunciated more clearly.

 

            **“Command received, looking up ‘manufacturers manual on military jet line ‘Nighthawk’.”**

 

            “NO. HUD-sen, dis-able code NIGHTHAWK on this device.”

 

            **“Command received, now looking up ‘mating habits of the night hawk’.**

Sherlock tried inputting the command in various accents and languages, but the outcomes were no better.

 

**“Command received, now receiving the 2007 record on the American Football team Seattle Sea Hawks.”**

**“Command received, now bringing up Wikipedia page, subject: Guy Fawkes”**

 

**“Command received, now bringing up webpage: MinistryofSillyWalks.net”**

\-----

 

Mycroft slid into the leather backseat of his town car, and was handed three manila folders by his assistant.

 

     “How many times has he attempted to disable it so far?” he said, leafing through the first folder.

 

     “Thirty-seven, sir.”

 

Mycroft smiled in that way his brother hated oh-so-much.

 

            “Update me when he resorts to physical force, will you?”

 

            “Yes sir.”

 

\-----

 

     Hostage situations were always so tedious. Sherlock had never come across a perpetrator competent enough to carry off a successful and well-run kidnapping. What a shame.

 

            “I-I just want the money. That’s it, I don’t want to hurt her!” stuttered a man on the other end of the line.

 

            “That much was obvious.” Sherlock scoffed. “Your efforts on her bindings could be called dismal and slap-dash at best.”

           

            “What? Look--I just--tell him I’m sorry won’t you? I don’t want this anymore. Just give me the money and he can have her back!” pleaded the voice.

 

            Sherlock had another scathing remark ready, but clamped his mouth shut when he saw Greg’s flared his nostrils at the other end of the room, listening to the conversation with one ear on a large set of headphones attached to whirring machines, recording every word for the sake of court and bureaucracy.

 

***BZZZZT BZZZZT***

**“Reminder: Mummy’s birthday tomorrow”** Read the tinny voice.

 

 

     “Damn.” Sherlock said, scrambling to silence it somehow. But, like the dozens of times before, he was unable.

 

     “What was that? Who’s there? You said you were alone! You had to call alone!” Said the now-angry voice. He was panicking. Not good.

 

            Sherlock decided the truth might get him farther than some excuse.

 

            “It’s just HUD-sen. A reminder, no one else is here.”

 

            “Hudson? Well—you just tell little Mrs. Hudson to go away. I don’t want to have to do something I don’t want to.” There was a soft whimper at the other end to remind Sherlock of what was at stake.

 

            Sherlock realized that the man most have figured HUD-sen was a real woman. It wasn’t the first time that had occurred. However, it was usually in the physical presence of the person, and once they understood that Sherlock couldn’t possibly have a tiny woman in his pocket, they’d figured the rest out themselves. Without the visual, it was a logical conclusion.

 

This could work.

 

            “HUD-s—Erm, _Mrs. Hudson_ , reminder received. Thank you, you may leave now.” 

 

            He breathed a sigh of relief mixed with annoyance when the message popped away. It was strange, HUD-sen was awful when it came to verbal commands—either misinterpreting them or ignoring them altogether. Why had it responded to the name ‘Mrs. Hudson’?

 

            Sherlock discovered over the next few months, that a better user experience came from referring to the device as Mrs. Hudson, so Mrs. Hudson it became.

\-----

 

 

     “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” That was a lie; HUD-sen had the ability to locate a signal at the bottom of the ocean through the walls of an American submarine less than three weeks ago. However, his mobile was not a viable option until he was able to remove the tracking device in it somehow. This particular tracking device was one of 44 he’d found over the years; each new one appearing less than four hours after the previous one’s removal.

 

     “And what’s wrong with landline?”

 

     “I prefer to text.” And mobiles weren’t as easily tracked by his brother.

 

     “Here, use mine.” Said (what Sherlock would soon learn) was the most fascinating man he’d ever known.

 

Sherlock owed thanks from the bottom of his (nonexistent) heart to listening device number 44 for finding him a suitable partner in his escapades.

 

            Sherlock would find John to be a much more useful sounding board than Mrs. Hudson or Billy. John was much less likely to misinterpret Sherlock’s monologues as commands. It had taken two hours on the phone and all of his theatric talents to take back the order of 240 kilos of garlic Mrs. Hudson decided Sherlock was no doubt asking for when explaining the ridiculousness of the superstition around vampires, while in a small town plagued with it during a case. Mycroft still offered him extra garlic whenever he dined with him at their family home. The bastard.

 

\-----

 

            “Send a text for me.” Sherlock mumbled, his face buried in the back of the couch.

 

            John sighed, and set his newspaper down to retrieve Sherlock’s phone from the kitchen. He returned at set the phone down on Sherlock’s upturned back, expecting Sherlock to roll over and grab it. He did not. He instead led it slide down his shoulder blade and hit the floor with a _thump_.

 

            John rolled his eyes and picked the phone. He tapped the screen and was surprised to find it felt like sliding a finger along fabric. The screen was free of scratches, smudges, and fingerprints which seemed impossible with how many corrosive materials Sherlock worked with on a regular basis.

 

            A screen began to glow and the welcome screen appeared; silver lines, no doubt the default wallpaper.

 

            “Hmm, it’s not letting me touch anything. Do you have a password?”

 

Sherlock lifted his head from the couch, to speak.

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, new administrator input: John.” he said, his neck bent at an angle that couldn’t have been comfortable all to avoid moving his body from its encasing of throw pillows and dressing robe.

 

            “Sherlock, if you would just take the damn thing and do it yourself—“

 

            “ _Sherlock, if you would just take the damn thing and do it yourself_ **Voice recognized, confirm?** ”

 

     John jumped. He’d heard Sherlock’s phone speak many times before, but he couldn’t help but start every time it did. It wasn’t sentient of course, but the voice of a kind old woman reading out Sherlock’s previous Google searches (examples include: ‘how to skin a man in 30 minutes’ ‘what is the best temperature to boil a man alive?’ and ‘good methods of pulling teeth on a conscious patient’) was enough to give any man goosebumps.

 

            “Confirm. John, I wouldn’t want to waste the precious calories you two insist on shoveling in me by doing such a menial task.”

 

            **“Command received, now bringing up Wikipedia page: Shovels.”**

            Sherlock thumped his head back into the couch, and let out a frustrated groan. Sherlock had only been without a case for 43 minutes and he was as sour as ever.

 

            John exited the web page and went to (what he assumed) was the text screen.

 

            “Right, what am I writing, then?”

 

            “’ Check under the staircase and tap three times. A hatch should open on the lower left corner of the master bedroom. Mind the snakes.’”

 

            John had the horrible habit of saying things as he typed when he was attempting to go beyond a snail’s pace.

 

            “—Mind….the….sna—Wait, did you say _snakes_? Should I ask?”

 

            “Depends. Do you want to know?”

 

John took a moment to ponder the question.

 

            “Explain it to me over dinner. I was thinking Thai?”

 

            **“Command received, looking up nearest Thai restaurant.”** Said Mrs. Hudson.

 

            “Oh, thank you.” John responded, feeling cheeky about his newfound technological skills.

 

He would almost come to blows with an ATM later that night.

 

            **“You’re welcome, dear.”**

 

            John resisted the impulse to drop the phone.

 

            “Do calm down John, it’s programmed to react to social pleasantries. It’s not plucked from the ridiculous plotline of that movie you forced me to sit through last week.” Sherlock said, sitting up only to slouch in a _different_ position.

 

            “Oi, Terminator is a bloody _great_ movie—“

 

            “It actually has a better response time when such pleasantries are used.”

 

            “What? Why?”

           

            “I don’t know…” Sherlock mumbled.

 

            “What was that?” John said, never able to resist the chance to hear _that_ said twice.

 

Sherlock responded by crossing his arms tighter, and shifting his jaw.

 

            “So if it responds so much better by being polite, why don’t you?”

           

            “Because I _refuse_ to feign good-natured remarks for the benefit of _circuits_.” Sherlock grumbled.

 

            “Right, well I’m starving, and Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to pick out a nice place down the road.” John said, heading for his coat.

 

Sherlock stood to do the same, but recalled what he’d forgotten a few minutes earlier.

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, send previous text draft to ‘blithering idiots’.” He called to the phone on the coffee table.

 

            “ **Command confirmed, sending text draft to: Scotland Yard.** ”

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, how you know me so well.”

 

\-----

 

            “Why don’t you have a wallpaper on your phone?” John asked one rainy afternoon.

 

            “Why would I?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the microscope in the kitchen.

 

            “I don’t know—to give it more—“

 

            “ _Sentimental value?_ ” Sherlock finished, spitting out the dreaded ‘s’ word.

 

            “I was going to say more of a personal touch. Don’t you have some kind of family picture you can set it to?” John said, setting his book aside.

 

            Sherlock’s mind immediately went to last year’s Christmas photo of Mycroft and Sherlock posing next to Mummy wearing those god-awful matching jumpers they were given. Sherlock might offer himself to Moriarty willingly if that photo managed to make its way into the public light. Luckily, he had Mycroft on his side, and if any man were capable of keeping something from the public eye, it was Mycroft.

 

            “No.”

 

            “Right, what just finding a picture of something you find nice to look at?”

 

            “Fine, set it to whatever you see fit. I’m rather busy.” He said as John picked the phone up from its spot next to Sherlock’s laptop.

 

**“Reminder: the rent is due in three days.”** Chirped Mrs. Hudson.

           

            “Thank you Mrs. Hudson, you’d make a fine landlady. Alright, just tell me something you like.”

 

            “Anything?”

 

            “Anything.”

 

            “That’s easy, a double homicide turned double suicide.”  said Sherlock as he swapped out the microscope slide.

 

            “I don’t think having a photo of that as a default screen on your phone would improve people’s suspicions about your character, Sherlock.”

 

            “Fine. Bees.”

 

            “Really?” John said, sounding genuinely astonished.

 

            “Yes, bee-keeping is a fascinating practice. Now leave me be.”

 

John snorted.

 

            “What now?” Sherlock groaned.

 

            “What, you didn’t make that pun on purpose? ‘Leave me bee?’”

 

            “John, I fear you have me horribly confused with an 80 year old man.”

\----

 

            When Sherlock turned on his phone later that evening, he was greeted by his new wallpaper: a cartoon bee with an expression that was so horrifyingly happy, it could only have been derived from watching the slaughter of his enemies.

 

            However, as awful as it was, he could never bring himself to change it.

\-----

 

            “Sherlock do you have any idea where you’re going?!” John called, digging his nails into the dashboard of the car.

 

            “John, we are in a stolen ambulance with a giant panda in the back, and there are seven enraged pregnant women giving chase in cars. Do you think I have time to look for directionsSSSS?!” The last word ended in a bit of a hiss as Sherlock peeled around a corner into a fruit stand.

            “Phone, grab my phone!” He called gesturing with his elbow at the pocket of his glitter-covered Belstaff.

 

            John made a grab for the phone just as Sherlock made a u-turn on a road that definitely was _not_ meant for u-turns. His head made solid contact with the car window. He shook the haze from his vision and shouted into the phone:

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, directions to Wallander Place, London.”

 

            When he received no response, he shouted a “Please!” for good measure.

 

A map popped up on the screen displaying Sherlock and John as a bright green dot.

 

            **“Turn left in .3 kilmeters, dear.”**

Sherlock did as he was told. And for the next ten minutes, they were guided by the horrifyingly calm voice of Mrs. Hudson.

 

            “Sherlock, what do you we do if it gets out?” John called over the whine of the ambulance siren.

 

            **“Turn right in 200 meters, love.”**

“What John? MOVE OUT OF THE WAY—YES, YOU!” Sherlock roared at a car full of elderly women who’d decided that three cars shooting at one another was no reason to go above the speed limit or pull off to the side of the road.

 

            “I said- I SAID WHAT IF THE PANDA ESCAPES?!”

 

            **“Oh dear, you’ve missed the turn, recalculating.”**

“Then the city’s road clean-up crew is going to have an interesting afternoon—PULL OVER YOU IMBECILE.”

 

            **“Make a right in 50 meters.”**

 

        Sherlock turned right far too late, and turned the steering wheel as hard as possible to compensate, putting the ambulance on only two wheels, and sending John careening into his side. In a desperate attempt to prevent a roll over, John slammed his body against the other door. With a loud THUMP the ambulance tipped back onto its right two wheels.

 

John was going to have more than a few bruises if they survived this, and from all the commotion in the back, the panda wasn’t having too great of a time either.

 

**“Go straight for the next 7 kilometers, dear.”**

            “I didn’t lock the doors in the back. Can pandas open doors? They have thumbs—SHERLOCK THIS LANE IS GOING IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION!” John gripped Sherlock’s shoulder as he weaved artfully through two lanes of oncoming London traffic.

 

            **“Destination in 5 kilimeters.”**

Lestrade and three dozen other officers had a blockade set up as instructed when they rounded the corner with another near roll-over. What Sherlock hadn’t accounted for, however, was how close it was to the actual street corner. It was immediately afterward.

 

            “Sher—SHERLOCK BRAKE.” John yelled, covering Sherlock’s face with his jacket as they made impact.

 

\-----

 

           The police car they ran into head-on was collateral damage.

 

            They were both seated firmly in yet _another_ ambulance getting cuts and bruises tended to. The airbags absorbed most of the impact, but John’s face was covered in nicks and cuts from the shattered glass of the windshield and Sherlock’s left wrist was sprained.

 

            “Have you got my phone?” Sherlock said, shrugging off the shock-blanket.

 

            “Ysh.” John responded through the thick gauze covering his upper lip and swollen bottom.  

 

            “Hand it over, I’ll call Mycroft and inform him we cracked his petty drug ring wide open.” He instinctually lifted his right hand and winced as his hurt wrist was rotated.

            “Nr, srlrght. Er cn snd rt.” John said, waving Sherlock’s hand away.

 

            “Are you sure? Can you see properly, your eyes are so swollen?”

 

            John slowly peeled the layer of guaze from his upperlip so he could speak slightly clearer.

 

            “Yes, I’m fine—Just give me a moment…I can’t find Mycroft’s name in here.”

 

            “Look under ‘f’.”

 

            “What? The only thing under ‘f’ is ‘fatas— _oh._ ” 

A loud shriek and the bleating of a giant panda rang out in unison.

 

            “Perhaps you should call animal control as well—“

 

\-----

 

            “Lestrade, I’m assuming you called me here before the forensics team had the chance to bungle up the crime scene too thoroughly?” Sherlock said, stepping into the crime scene in his usual grandiose manner.

 

            “Hey Freak, you left your mobile at the yard yesterday. Cute bee.” Sneered Sally, tossing the phone.

 

            “Yes, that was rather careless of me, but then again, one’s mind tends to lose track of the small things when doing police work. I’m sure you’d know nothing about that, though.” Sherlock retorted.

 

            When Sherlock tapped it on, he made a show of saying:

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, how many access attempts were there in the last 24 hours?”

 

            **“Four attempts from *voice recognized*: ‘Waste of Air’”**

 

            “Really Anderson, four times? Tsk, tsk.”

\-----

            Sherlock was bent over half a body inside a skip when he felt a buzzing in his pocket.

 

            **“Reminder: Today is *Valentines Day* Should I make a reservation for you and your significant other *John Watson*?”**

“What? Did you say my name Sherlock?” John asked, looking over his shoulder, interrupting his conversation with Lestrade.

 

            “No, it was Mrs. Hudson asking if we should make reservations for a Valentine’s Day dinner later this evening. You’re programmed in my phone as my ‘significant other.’” Sherlock stated very matter-of factly.

 

            **“Command received, now listing ‘the top ten Valentine’s Day dinner spots’”**

Greg coughed on his coffee as John’s ears turned a shade of light pink.

 

            “I see. Did you set it that way?” John said, trying to maintain composure.

 

            **“Number ten: China Tang. ‘The Dorchester's luxurious Cantonese restaurant offers a fabulous mix of art deco design and David Tang's gutsy modern take on Chinese cookery.’”**

 

            “No, I believe it assumes that because you spend more than 80% of your day with me, that we’re partners in a romantic sense. It’s impossible to change, one of the many errors that was fixed in the final version of this phone, I’m sure.”

 

            **“Number nine: Dinings. ‘Dinings' kitchen takes the best parts of Japanese minimalism and Latin American flavour profiles, and melds them into something more than the sum of their parts.’”**

“Sherlock, why does it not bother you that everyone assumes we’re together?” John asked in a hushed tone as he crossed the crime scene.

 

            “Why would it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely confused as to why this was such a frequent topic with his flatmate.

 

**“Number eight: Exhibition Rooms. ‘There's nothing especially novel about the menu but it's all top-notch produce superbly cooked and allowed to speak for itself.’”**

“I don’t know. False assumptions made about you or your lifestyle seems like something that you’d be in the habit of correcting.”

 

            “My life has been riddled with false accusations and assumptions. I learned from a very early age that those dim-witted enough to make those assumptions are not worth the time it would take to correct those assumptions.”

 

            **“Number seven: Le Gavroche. ‘Le Gavroche's set lunch is famously good value – the £51 charge includes a half bottle of wine, coffee and petits fours – and you'll need to book well ahead to snag a table.’”**

“Besides, there are worse assumptions to be subject to.”

 

            “What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock snapped his pocket magnifying glass shut and stood to look John in the eyes.

 

            “You’re one of the most trustworthy men I know. I’d trust you with my life in an instant. You ground my humanity in more ways than I’d care to admit. Dozens can attest to the fact that you’ve improved me both as a person, and as a consulting detective. You’re _far_ less dull than most and I owe more than a few arrests to your input. You never cease to amaze me. Quite frankly, I don’t correct the assumption, because in a way…”

 

            **“Number six: Lobby Lounge at the Corinthia. ‘Between Trafalgar Square and Embankment, the building looks Orwellian from the outside, but inside is all sweetness and light.’”**

“…because I’m _proud_ others assume that you would find a man like me worthy of such affections.”

 

John was silent for a few moments, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, that will be enough for the reservations—“ Sherlock began.

 

            “I don’t know, the third one sounded rather nice.” John said as a warm smile made a home on his face.

 

\-----

_*BZZZZT BZZZZZT*_

            Sherlock groaned, lifting his head from the pillow. Slapping his hand on the wooden night stand, he groped blindly for the vibrating object. A few other objects found a new home on the floor in the process, but eventually his hand found its way to the phone.

 

            “Mhph” was all his mouth managed, still gummy from sleep.

 

            The voice recognition system found that to be satisfactory, and unlocked the phone. The room was immediately flooded by a white light that would have given the very center of the sun a run for its metaphorical money. Sherlock clapped his free hand to his eyes, but it was too late, the damage to his corneas was done. He waited a moment for the afterimage to stop dancing around his peripheral. Sherlock blinked until the queen bee wallpaper became a recognizable shape.

 

            One message displayed itself in the center of the screen. Sherlock let a crooked smile spread on his face as he read. He flicked off the phone, and gently put it back. As he settled back into the mattress, one arm snaked its way across his chest to pull him close. Sherlock draped his arm around John’s shoulder. John let out a yawn and mumbled something along the lines of: “What was it?” but one couldn’t be entirely sure with John’s face wedged between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck.

 

            Sherlock let his face rest against John’s head of blonde hair and responded with a soft “Nothing John, go back to sleep.” Sherlock’s crooked smile stayed firmly in place all night.

 

***Reminder: Happy one-year anniversary, dear!***


End file.
